The Rapture Series
Why Do you Believe? What Do you Believe? How Do You Believe? Who Do You Believe?
“Reason to Believe”
Natszal: "Left" (2:3-3)
“LEFT”
THE EARTH'S LAST DAYS
TIM LAHAYE & JERRY B. JENKINS
He reached for her wrist. “Hattie, we're all going to go home and cry today. But hang in there. Get your passengers off the plane, and you can at least feel good about that.”
“Mr. Williams,” she sobbed, “you know we lost several old people, but not all of them. And we lost several middle-aged people, but not all of them. And we lost several people your age and my age, but not all of them. We even lost some teenagers.”
He stared at her. What was she driving at? “Sir, we lost every child and baby on this plane.” “How many were there?” “More than a dozen. But all of them! Not one was left.” The man next to Buck roused and, squinted at the late morning sun burning through
the window. “What in blazes are you two talking about?” he said. “We're about to land in Chicago,” Hattie said. “I've got to run.”
“Chicago?” “You don't want to know,” Buck said. The man nearly sat in Buck's lap to get a look out the window, his boozy breath
enveloping Buck. “What, are we at war? Riots? What?”
Having just cut through the cloud bank, the plane allowed passengers a view of the Chicago area. Smoke. Fire. Cars off the road and smashed into each other and guardrails. Planes in pieces on the ground. Emergency vehicles, lights flashing, picking their way around the debris.
As O'Hare came into view, it was clear no one was going anywhere soon. There were planes as far as the eye could see, some crashed and burning, the others grid locked in between vehicles toward the terminal. The expressways that led to the airport looked like they had during the great Chicago blizzards, only without the snow.
Cranes and wreckers were trying to clear a path through the front of the terminal so cars could get in and out, but that would take hours, if not days. A snake of humanity wended its way slowly out of the great terminal buildings, between the motionless cars, and onto the ramps. People walking, walking, walking, looking for a cab or a limo. Buck began plotting how he would beat the new system. Somehow, he had to get moving and get out of such a congested area. The problem was, his goal was to get to a worse one: New York.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Rayford announced, “I want to thank you again for your cooperation today. We've been asked to put down on the only runway that will take this size plane and then to taxi to an open area about two miles from the terminal. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to use our inflatable emergency chutes, because we will not be able to hook up to any gateways. If you are unable to walk to the terminal, please stay with the plane, and we will send someone back for you.”
There was no thanking them for choosing Pan-Continental, no “We hope you'll make us your choice next time you need air service.” He did remind them to stay seated with their belts fastened until he turned off the seat belt sign, because privately he knew this would be his most difficult landing in years. He knew he could do it, but it had been a long time since he had had to land a plane among other aircraft.
Rayford envied whoever it was in first class who had the inside track on communicating by modem. He was desperate to call Irene, Chloe, and Ray Jr. On the other hand, he feared he might never talk to them again.
CHAPTER THREE
HATTIE Durham and what was left of her cabin crew encouraged passengers to study the safety cards in their seat pockets. Many feared they would be unable to jump and slide down the chutes, especially with their carry-on luggage. They were instructed to remove their shoes and to jump seat first onto the chute. Then crew members would toss them their shoes and bags. They were advised not to wait in the terminal for their checked baggage. That, they were promised, would eventually be delivered to their homes. No guarantees when.
Buck Williams gave Hattie his card and got her phone number, “Just in case I get through to your people before you do.” “You're with Global Weekly?” she said. “I had no idea.” “And you were going to send me to my room for tampering with the phone.”
She appeared to be trying to smile. “Sorry,” Buck said, “not funny. I'll let you go.” Always a light traveler, Buck was grateful he had checked no baggage. Never did, not even on international flights. When he opened the bin to pull down his leather bag, he found the old man's hat and jacket still perched atop it. Harold's wife sat staring at Buck, her eyes full, jaw set. “Ma'am,” he said quietly, “would you want these?”
The grieving woman gratefully gathered in the hat and coat, and crushed them against her chest as if she would never let them go. She said something Buck couldn't hear. He asked her to repeat it. “I can't jump out of any airplane,” she said.
“Stay right here,” he said. “They'll send someone for you.” “But will I still have to jump and slide down that thing?” “No, ma'am. I'm sure they'll have a lift of some sort.” Buck carefully laid his laptop and case in among his clothes. With his bag zipped,
he hurried to the front of the line, eager to show others how easy it was. He tossed his shoes down first, watching them bounce and skitter onto the runway. Then he clutched his bag across his chest, took a quick step and threw his feet out in front of him.
A bit enthusiastic, he landed not on his seat but on his shoulders, which threw his feet over the top of his head. He picked up speed and hit the bottom with his weight shifting forward. The buggy-whip centripetal force slammed his stockinged feet to the ground and brought his torso up and over in a somersault that barely missed planting his face on the concrete. At the last instant, still hanging on to his bag for dear life, he tucked his head under and took the abrasion on the back of his head rather than on his nose. He fought the urge to say, “No problem,” but he couldn't keep from rubbing the back of his head, already matted with blood. It wasn't a serious problem, only a nuisance. He quickly retrieved his shoes and began logging toward the terminal, as much from embarrassment as need. He knew there would be no more hurrying once he hit the terminal.
(blogger)
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